It is much like a bottling plant operation where new employees are first passed through a mind scrubber to purge old ideas and then they are filled with the nonsense a large organization believes will give them long shelf lives before being slotted into old packages for shipping through career land. Abelard and the other recent hires were to be put through the VBI orientation machinery.
Alberta Reed’s irredeemably squealing drone, as she went on about the virtues of VBI to its newest inductees set Abelard’s mind adrift. Who was he if not the person of his memories? How could it be otherwise? Nothing had happened since he awoke to weaken the only past he recalls: about his childhood; about life prior to the battle, the last thing he remembers before awaking in the care of Felicity. A year of psychotherapy notwithstanding. Elizabetta Trebella had finally ended their sessions with the typical arrogance of her profession, “you are marvelously adapted, so let’s not worry about your lost memories,” she had said, “and I don’t think we should be too distracted by the apparently violent world you’ve chosen to fill in the gaps, there do not seem to be any real consequences. Good luck.” How little she knew. True, he could not explain the missing years, a mere 675 of them, but he felt certain he would eventually find the answer.
Confident and dismissive as she may have appeared to Abelard, little did he know that Elizabetta was uneasy with almost everything about him. Her other patients who had become trapped in borrowed identities were hampered by their troubled minds in almost all their daily endeavor. With Abelard, apart from his improbable choice of personality, she could find nothing extraordinary in his day-to-day behaviour. A bit violence prone perhaps, but not off the charts. He had reluctantly agreed to periodically check back with her, after subtle hints his therapy could otherwise be prolonged.
“…and our new logo,” Alberta looked to very much like this part. In her excited state she couldn’t keep her squeak from pumping up a decibel, roughly pushing Abelard’s musings into the background, “since we began using VBI instead of VeryBigIndustries, is meant to evoke the basic values we were fortunate to inherit from the two merged companies, Very Bank and Big Project Engineering – integrity, industry, individualism. The last two, remarkably, also guided our engineering divisions and PeoplePharma Inc., which we had acquired two years earlier.” Those who were still listening may have wondered what could have been so remarkable about others using values as oppressively common as these. Alberta continued for another bit, squealing her way into the fertile young minds preparing to go out and do the company’s bidding. She was followed by the IT people, there to underline the singular importance of not surfing pornographic sites on company computers - religious, political and astrology sites were fine – and never opening email attachments, even if they were from mother. After listening to people who wanted everyone to be one big family, and others who made it clear that death by firing would be instantaneous if so much as one cardinal rule was contravened, the Vice Chairman – one of six – finally finished the day with a rousing welcome, which he sang to the tune of Bizet’s First Arlesienne Suite.
“Hey, so we’re both working for The Predator,” the whining buzz saw interrupted Abelard’s rush to the door. Gummy smile, lantern jawed, tall and blond, true VBI material, had also extended a caricature sized hand towards him, leaving Abelard no options. The Predator was Robert, “Robbie” Robertson, head of mergers and acquisitions, his new boss.
“Badger Va-low-iss, spelt V-A-L-O-I-S”, gummy smile went on, hand still extended. Valois, who had in the fourteenth century taken over the French Monarchy after murdering the last male heir of the previous dynasty, was a hated name in Abelard’s bogus memories and he took a moment to compose himself before slipping his own hand around the fleshy fist. Abelard immediately appreciated that Badger would need close watching. He was definitely ambitious, the company’s mythologies already at his fingertips. Abelard understood much about moving around and up organizations. He reckoned he would need to be going Badger hunting at some time in the future.
“Abelard, Abelard Bush,” with a broad grin, indistinguishable from the real thing. He had quickly retooled his protocol equipment. In his vivid past emotions were worn on the outside. First impressions were apt to be much more revealing; unprovoked aggression for serious competitors and a smile for friends. “I’m starving, how about you,” he added, welcoming the distraction of the buffet to extricate himself from Badger.
Besides Valois, the VP Analysis and Market Intelligence, there were three other new execs, including himself, employed in M&A. He was the VP Negotiating Strategy, a position specifically recommended to Robertson by Milly, who must have recalled Abelard’s self-promotion in this area. From what he remembered, his negotiating skills were quite formidable. He had, after all, been a Gascon captain in the Black Prince’s armies. At the battle of Poitiers he had helped avoid a military catastrophe, riding with his father, the Captal de Buch, to lead their small troop of archers and men-at-arms to attack a numerically vastly superior French rear, causing them to panic and flee. For him that was just six years ago, still relatively very fresh memories. For everyone else it was in 1356, over 650 years ago. For that exploit he was handsomely rewarded with rights to seven valuable prisoners, enabling him to finance an increase in the size of his own troops, and so rise in esteem and importance. It needn’t have been thus, but he had worked hard ingratiating himself to the Black Prince and becoming his trusted hand above all others at his station, including the Prince’s own cousins.
He had also participated in the seizure and looting of John II’s baggage train. John II, described by historians as the stupidest of all French Kings, a well-earned title, had been captured by the Black Prince. It was entirely serendipitous that he had been part of the attack on the rear, putting him closer to the baggage train than all the other victorious thugs rushing to the prize; a small chest filled with jewels, gold handicraft and coin and intricately worked religious objects. Nothing of that fabulous treasure had ever turned up. Historians all agree that it was carried off by the looters but why it has never resurfaced remains a complete mystery.
These and other centuries old memories were all that made up Abelard’s palpable experience. He drew on them for guidance in difficult situations, when he had hard decisions to make and when he felt threatened. He had nothing else.
“So where’s the accent from,” Badger’s irritating nasal whirr was again at his ear, “Eastern Europe, I’ll bet?” Then he just stood there, close up, mouth open, rancid breath pillaging Abelard’s sensory organs. Abelard was used to staring people down. He also fondly recalls his easy recourse to permanent solutions: slicing, dicing and chopping up those who annoyed him. He even considered having a go at Valois with his tiny plastic knife and fork combo. But only for a delicious moment.
“From South West France,” he finally loosened the imaginary rope holding Valois upright and in thrall. “Gascony, actually. We all develop this strange Eastern European like accent when we learn English. Our original language, for the longest time, was Gascon, sort of a little like Provencal. Then we all learnt the English of Chaucer’s century when the Plantagenet took over the Duchy of Guyenne. And by the time the French finally settled in we had evolved this really funny speech defect,” he continued, always smiling and gesticulating, so that Valois, to whom much of this sounded like gibberish, could no longer be sure whether he was being derisively mocked or seriously informed.
“Well that’s just great. Keep up the good work,” was the only inanity Valois was able to manage, before disappearing behind the bulk of Alberta Reed. A successful diversion, thought Abelard. He could now concentrate on more practical matters like scheming to move up the organization ladder. Just then happenstance made a felicitous appearance. The Predator having at last arrived to mingle stepped directly into the Valois grip, unrelenting like a steel trap. All his impatient sighing and maneuvering to no avail, he could not escape what seemed to be an iron embrace. Opportunities were for Abelard like carrion to a scavenge
r, he could sniff them out anywhere and his reaction was always swift and sure. As surreptitiously as possible he slipped through the crowded room and, placing himself just inches from Valois, barely outside his peripheral vision, he waited for him to turn with the predator’s always fruitless evasive movements, as he knew he would, having taken a few moments to observe how he so successfully kept glued to his prey. Then, thud, slosh and it was all over. Valois’ refreshments had neatly subdivided into an empty cup and a large soggy, black, syrupy splotch across his white polo shirt.
“Shit, what the fuck”, he bellowed, “now see what you’ve done!” He looked to Robertson for sympathy and detected none. He looked to Abelard for an apology and got none. Neither did Abelard have to actually say anything.
“Mr. Badger,” Robertson’s clearly modulated voice began by getting his name wrong, “you should have been more careful, now go and get yourself cleaned up, we’ll all still be here when you return,” he lied.
As Abelard also turned to go, without acknowledging Robertson, he felt a hand grip his upper shoulder and Robertson saying, “Robbie Robertson,” his other hand extended to shake. Mission accomplished.
“Abelard, Abelard Bush,” he growled, “sorry about the interruption,” without any self-justifications or apportioning of blame.
“On the contrary Mr. Bush, I owe you one,” he whispered. “We shall surely meet again. And, Abe, mind me calling you Abe, name’s Robbie, from now on.”
A good captain, he recalled being told by history’s most famous mercenary, Sir John Hawkwood, should always know when to break off an engagement and now seemed the most opportune moment. “Uh oh, Alberta there is giving me the evil eye; I’d better get to the next session.” A knowing nod from Robertson and he was off.
This was all going to be much easier than he had dared to imagine. He would quickly demolish Valois and if he was anything to go by, the other VPs in his way would also be swiftly dealt with. These happy thoughts carried him through the remainder of the day’s crushingly boring orientation activities. He was fully prepared to act the eager apprentice to the master takeover artist, Robertson, until such time as an opportunity arose for him to demonstrate his superior abilities in this area where he remembers always excelling. And that would not be long in coming.
Chapter VIII
Deadly takeover
The Perfect Human: An Abelard Chronicles Book Page 12